


Choices

by edanasis



Series: Battleship Fandom [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Harry saves himself, Harry's a sweet little kid, Light Angst, kind of, magic is alive, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 07:34:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11352810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edanasis/pseuds/edanasis
Summary: No one's coming to save him, so he finally listens to that little voice in the back of his mind and saves himself.





	Choices

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes the voices in our heads are worth listening to.

The earliest memory Harry James Potter can recall is a brief glimpse of two men: one with a wild grin, dark hair and stormy grey eyes, and another with lighter hair, an amber gaze and the most calming presence he’s ever felt. Harry dreams of this memory often, happily listening to loud barks of gleeful laughter and soothing tones, excited words he can’t understand anymore and gentle, warm hugs. 

 

The second earliest memory he can recall is a frightening flash of green light, and the painful screams of a woman. The light is powerful, terrifying, and alive; it devours the woman in a single breath, and he watches her fall to the floor amidst triumphant cackles. He dreams of this memory even more often than the others. 

 

Then the roaring green light tries to eat him next, and he bolts up in his cot in his little cupboard. It’s the same every time he dreams of it. 

 

Once he’s awake he lies there, fingering the lightning bolt shaped scar carved into the tender skin on his forehead and wondering to himself where the green light came from. He wonders where the smiling faces disappeared to, where the comforting aura of a happy family went, why he’s been left alone with these people who clearly want no part of his life and do their best to exclude him from theirs. 

 

Well, they’d never be able to replace the others, anyways, he thinks. And he never wants them to.

 

On the nights that he wakes, sweaty, trembling and with a racing heart, from nightmares of the green flash and frantic babbling, a voice whispers in his ears and in the back of his mind and tells him to  _ choose _ . 

 

At first, he’s much too young to understand the subtle prodding and insinuations, and simply brushes it off as just another ‘freaky thing’; it’s just another part of his ‘freakiness’. But as days slowly blur into months and then grow further into years, and he closes in on an age of double digits, he begins to puzzle over the voice that beckons him when the sun is gone and he’s alone. It grows stronger, grows alongside him, with him, and Harry realizes one day that it’s not just a voice in his head but a power thrumming through his blood and bones, and it makes him ache with restlessness. 

 

Finally comes the night he turns ten years old, and he lies in his cot and counts down the hours and minutes and seconds, steadfastly ignoring the throbbing lashes and bruises from his earlier punishments. A thrill runs through him when he hears the sitting room clock chime twelve and he sits up, biting back a whimper at how his ribs screech their painful protest. 

 

_ Choose, choose. You can choose.  _

 

The voice rattles around his ears and drops to shiver through his veins, both soothing and distinctly unnerving. Harry tries to ignore it, but every time it has ever woken up it lingers just a little bit longer than before. He knows what it wants, knows what it’s trying to say and show, knows how much it’s asking and telling and begging him to  _ go go run leave don’t look back _ \--but Harry’s never been able to let go of his beliefs, no matter how bleak and dark his days get. 

 

He’s never been able to let go of his hope.

 

Hope that one day, someone will show up and tell him that he’s done well by staying where they’ve told him to stay; his mother’s sister’s family. (He remembers clearly the day when Aunt Petunia sneered and told him that she never wanted him, but he  _ had _ to stay, much to her disappointment.) He knows that it must have been someone even bigger and scarier than Uncle Vernon if they weren’t refusing. He knows this and he has always hoped that the stranger will come back and finally take him away and tell him that he’s actually done something right and he’s not the worst child in the entire world and maybe, even, that he’s not really a  _ freak _ . Because there’s a hole where he remembers his heart should be, where it used to be all warm and bright when the man with stars for eyes would laugh and the cautious, careful arms would hold him close and the loving voices would sing him to sleep. 

 

Now he can’t feel anything there anymore, except the hurt that rips him open during the nightmares and leaves him tearful and gasping for air and clutching his shirt over his chest trying to stop the bleeding that isn’t there. There’s only pain, no blood and no visible wounds, like it’s not real. 

 

But it is real. It’s so very, very real, and it always has been. Harry thinks it always will be, too. He thinks it’s cruel that he’s been wounded in a way he cannot heal, just because he cannot see it. So he just clasps his hands tighter and rides out the pain until he feels nothing again, all the while wondering what he’d done to deserve this and wishing he’d never done it in the first place. 

 

Maybe the green light had been his fault, and this is the punishment. 

 

_ You have a choice, a choice, make a choice, don’t turn back. _

 

Harry stills in his cot and drags in a lungful of dusty air. The voice both heaves him deeper into his mind and further from sleep, into a place where all he can hear are his thoughts and all he feels is the pain of the beatings from earlier. 

 

_ Come on, come, choose. You must, you must! _

 

But he doesn’t want to! He can’t bear the thought of giving up. The hope of a rescue is all that’s keeping him alive and willing to face the next day, and if he leaves that behind he doesn’t think he’ll survive. 

 

And yet the realization is sinking deep into his stomach like the mud Dudley likes to make him eat, when his friends are nearby and nobody is looking too closely at them. 

 

_ Silly, silly. Don’t look back, look up. Look around. Choose, choose, you have a choice. _

 

The voice sing-songs around in his head until he gets it. He blinks away the tears in his green eyes and buries his face in his hands and really  _ thinks _ . He thinks harder than he ever has before. 

 

He’s wanted rescue. He’s wanted praise, wanted acknowledgement, wanted someone to just look at him and smile a smile meant for him only and say his name and know he’s there and alive and be  _ happy about that _ \--

 

He stills wants that. He’ll always want that, want all those things, he concludes. But perhaps it doesn’t have to start with some stranger. Maybe it doesn’t have to start with anyone else at all. Maybe, maybe  _ he _ can start it. Maybe he can be the first one to smile at himself, to acknowledge what he’s doing and what he’s done before. 

 

_ Yes, yes. Closer! _

 

He’s already ten years old and no one has come for him. Ten years old and he still doesn’t have anything to show for his efforts, he still receives nothing in return but scorn and distrust and  _ we don’t want you here why can’t you just leave why don’t you die _ . And for some reason he continues on, like it doesn’t even matter, because that’s everything he’s ever been told. He doesn’t matter. 

 

Except he does. He knows this now, lying on his little cot and finally, finally listening to that whispering, teasing, pleading voice inside him, begging him to choose. 

 

To choose himself. Not his Aunt, not his Uncle, not some stranger he wonders about while he prunes the flowers and mows the lawn and cooks food for his relatives. It’s time to make the choice he’s been so dreading for ages and ages. 

 

_ Come, come, run, fly! Free, free to choose, don’t turn back. Look up! _

 

Harry reaches out into the dark of his cupboard and picks up the only object he’s ever truly cared for. The necklace is cool in his palm, grounding him, and the voice hums in approval and pulses just beneath his skin. He can’t quite remember anymore, but it belongs to him and it’s all thanks to the ones from his earliest memory. He feels his lips tug up, like they’re happy, and thinks, yes, it’s time. 

 

_ Come, child. Make your choice. _

 

Harry pushes his hand against the door of the cupboard and the voice jumps from his fingertips and unlocks it. With silent footsteps he slips out into the warm summer night, and glances up to see the stars winking back at him. Something leaps inside his chest. 

 

It’s jarring to realize it’s his heart. He heads away from the house, away from the painful memories and blurry, tearstained years, away from the hope of someone, somewhere, who might not even exist, and towards tomorrow. 

 

It’s a place where right now, only he exists, clutching a new, fragile yet burning hope, where he forges his way on his own and rebuilds his heart. The voice cries gleefully from his bones with each stride and he smiles fully for the first time in what feels like  _ forever _ . 

 

This is his choice. He will not look back, because he knows there’s nothing left for him to see there. 

 

Instead he looks forward, towards himself, towards his own horizon and a place where his heart will one day flourish like a magical garden and never be cut down again. The voice sings a victorious, hopeful tune.

 

_ Your choice? _

 

He looks up and chooses to keep walking forward.


End file.
